Conversations
by minervamcgonagalls
Summary: She plows away at her job in Administration. He phones whenever he can. (One-shot; sort of Philinda.)


**... This just sort of happened.  
**

* * *

"So how's the new job?"

May does not reply. The only reason she took this job at all is that it involves next to no talking—and Coulson knows it, having played a part in it himself: convincing Fury that it is, in fact, for the best.

"She's our best field agent," Fury had argued—or so Melinda was informed later.

"She's also a human being fighting a battle with her own mind," Coulson had replied. "She can hardly talk."

Indeed. May can barely utter five words without the sound of her own voice reminding her of what happened in Bahrain, and being forced to relive it all over again.

The field agents have given her a nickname thanks to what she did. The Cavalry.

She hates them all. Coulson hates them, too, or at least pretends to for her sake. He shouted at the last person they heard use the nickname before she left, a feat which almost made her smile.

He seems to still be waiting for her to reply. She puts him on speaker and then staples a stack of papers as loudly as she possibly can. He takes the hint and continues.

"Good to hear. I'm not gonna lie, though—it's not the same with you gone."

She focuses intently on managing the papers.

"Not that I want you to come back—wait, no. That's . . ."

She knows perfectly well what he means. She smiles just slightly, and can't remember the last time she's done so.

"I mean, I do miss you being here, but I want you to do what's best for you."

_Took you long enough to get that out_. She can feel her smile widening against her will. Trust him and his awkwardness to brighten her day.

"I can hear you smiling," he tells her.

_Oh, shut up._

She hears noise from the background, and then he says, "I've gotta go. I'll call again when I can. Miss you."

_Click_.

May swallows.

_I miss you, too._

* * *

She pours all her energy into her work, and he phones whenever he can. Talks about his day, or week, or month, depending on how long it's been, and always gives her the chance to talk as well. The sound of the stapler speaks for her, saying that no, Melinda is not ready to talk today, but thank you for asking.

She can hear the happiness in his voice the day she finally mutters, "Hi," although he tries his best not to let her know he thinks it's a miracle.

"A few agents chipped in and got me a pair of tickets to see the orchestra this Saturday ..."

His birthday. She knows. She got him one of the Captain America cards in the collection he's been working to complete for years. Took a lot of digging, but she finally found someone who was willing to sell.

"... And I was wondering if you'd like to come."

She freezes. It'd be nice to see him. But there would be people, so many people, and there would be noise and bright lights, so unlike the quiet comfort of her dark workspace ...

She wants so badly to tell him she'll come. But her hands are shaking at the mere thought of so many people, and she barely manages to get out, "I ... I can't." She hiccoughs slightly at the end of the word _can't_, and curses herself for it. "I'm sorry," she tells him, louder, but still trembling.

"Don't be," he replies. "Do what's best for you."

_But it's your birthday_, she wants to say, and though that thought seems childish, she does want to be there for it.

But those words don't come, and instead she says, "I sent you something."

"You did?"

"'Course." _You're my best friend_, she adds in her mind.

"Any chances I'll guess what it is?"

"No."

"Ah. Good to know."

They're both silent. She waits patiently.

"I've gotta go," he tells her.

"All right."

_Sorry about Saturday._

"I'll call again when I can."

_Click._

_Have a good time._

* * *

He can't shut up about her present. He's like a giddy child, talking so quickly that half of it is nonsense to her ears.

But she gets the gist of it—his collection is almost complete now, she is a beautiful human being, the only thing that could possibly make this better is Captain America himself coming back from the dead to autograph the collection, but that's not going to happen, so he's thrilled with what he has.

_Dork_, she thinks, smiling as he chatters.

On and on and on. The orchestra was wonderful. He wishes she could have heard it.

The cellist was pretty. He mentions that several times.

May bites her tongue.

* * *

"Her name is Audrey. I wish you could meet. You'd love her."

May knows it couldn't truly work out. Not with his job. And she thinks he knows it too. But for his sake, she says nothing.

There's something else there, though; something May doesn't like to think about. A feeling she doesn't like to consider, and doesn't understand the reason for anyway.

Why does she feel the slightest bit betrayed?

She should not feel this way. He is her _friend_. This should make her happy.

_Get a grip_, she tells herself.

But she does not answer her phone the next time he calls.

* * *

"May?"

"Hmm."

"You're all right? It's been a while since ..."

_Since we last talked. _May swallows. "I'm fine. Sorry. Been busy."

"Oh."

Her hands are shaking. Why are her hands shaking? She forces herself to work more quickly. "How's Audrey?"

"Doing well, I think. I haven't seen her for a while. You know how ... how the job is."

"Mm-hmm." Or, she used to.

"Something's wrong." It's not a question. Damn it.

"Nothing is wrong." Too many words. She should have simply said, "No."

"Melinda."

She knows that tone all too well. She takes a deep breath and says, "There's more work than usual lately. I'm just busy." Words, words, words. Too many. She hates herself.

"Right."

She can tell he doesn't believe her, but knows that he won't press further. "Sorry," she tells him.

"It's fine."

The silence is awful for once. She decides to break it. "I should probably focus only on the work right now."

"Okay. I'll let you go. I'll call again when I can."

_Click_.

May puts her face in her hands.

_You have to let go, Melinda._

Why is it so hard to do?

* * *

The years pass. May resigns herself to letting go. It's a slow process, but she tells herself repeatedly that it is for the best. She is far too damaged, far too broken to possibly consider anything else.

She talks a little more as the years go on. Not as much as she did before Bahrain (though, to be fair, she didn't do a great deal before it, either), but she can carry out conversations without flinching.

But one day she finds that, despite this improvement, she can barely get a word in edgewise.

"Steve Rogers is alive, Melinda."

"Who?"

He clearly does not catch the sarcasm in her voice, because he next exclaims, "Captain America!"

As if she doesn't know, after all these years of having Phil Coulson for a best friend. But she lets him chatter anyway.

"My childhood hero, Melinda. Do you think I'll ever get to meet him?"

_Probably_, she says in her mind. If not, she might be able to pull a few strings.

"Maybe he'd sign my trading cards. My collection's complete now, you know."

She thinks of the one she got him for his birthday several years ago, and smiles a little.

* * *

"It's more dangerous than we thought, Melinda. And there's something weird happening on this ship. It's like he's inside our heads, playing us all somehow, and we all know it, but we can't tell exactly what it is he wants."

"Maybe _that _is exactly what he wants. To get you all tense, until one of you snaps." The silence on the other end of the line lets her know this troubles him. "Banner's on board, isn't he?"

More silence, but then after a moment, "Yes."

May takes a deep breath. "Keep an eye on him. Don't let him know, of course. Nat's there too?"

"Yes."

"If anyone can outplay Loki, it's her."

She can tell he's been sitting in a chair, because she hears him push it back to stand. "Good thinking."

They're both silent again, until he suddenly says, "Melinda, if something happens ..."

"Don't. Don't you dare." But then she stops and really thinks about the question. "Isn't this the kind of thing you should be asking Audrey?"

He seems to be caught off-guard by this. "Well ... I know that she'd ... she'd be fine, after a while. But you ... you ..."

He's still looking out for her, even after all these years. When everyone else is focused on things that are _actually_ important, like the safety of the world, he's still making sure that one broken woman in Administration will be all right. She swallows. "I'd be all right, eventually. I promise. It'd be hard, but I'd get through it."

He sighs. "That's ... that's good. A relief. Thank you." A pause, and then, "Sorry, that was a little—"

"No. No, it's fine, actually. Thank you."

"For what?"

She suddenly realizes just how possible it is that something might happen to him, and she almost panics. Instead, she says, "For ... for always looking out for me. Making sure I'm all right. For ... for everything you've done for me."

"Don't start getting all morbid on me, Melinda; I'm the one who brought this up."

She almost laughs. "Sorry."

"It's fine."

She's pretty sure he's walking now, but he hasn't hung up. "Phil?"

"Yes?"

"Just ... be careful."

"Always."

* * *

The phone rings after the battle in New York, and she reaches to answer it with at least three times her normal speed. She just wants to hear his voice, to know he's all right, to hear him tell her he always knew they'd win in the end.

"Phil?"

But it's not his voice she hears on the other end. It's Fury's, and he starts off by telling her how sorry he is, which is terrifying because Fury's never sorry for anyone or anything, and then Melinda is shaking, and silent tears are pouring down her cheeks, because Phil's gone, oh God, please no, it can't be true.

She attends the funeral, seated in the row that's supposed to be reserved for family, but is instead occupied by the Avengers themselves. Natasha sits on her immediate right, occasionally reaching out to give Melinda's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Nat stands next to her at the burial as well. "I'm so sorry," she says when it's over, and then turns to go. But Melinda just stands there, numb, until the crowd has gone and it's just her and the newly-placed headstone.

She sits down next to it and traces a few of the letters with her fingers.

"Hey," she whispers.

The sigh of the wind is her only answer. She swallows. "So I guess this is goodbye. It's weird to be the one doing the talking, and have the other person not answer. I never gave you credit for that."

Tears fill her eyes, and she wipes at them in vain, but they come pouring out anyway. "God, I was such a mess. Still am. I can't figure out why the hell you ever put up with me." She half chokes, half laughs. "I should've died, not you. You were a much better person anyway."

Then she's laughing, laughing hysterically through her tears. "But then, you wouldn't have stood for that, would you?" She shakes her head. "Always looking out for me, right up till the end."

_The end_. The words strike something in her, and she begins to sob. It's something she hasn't done since she was small, but she can't stop herself now. Her best friend is gone, and she cannot change that no matter how hard she tries.

She takes a few shallow, rapid breaths.

"I'll be all right, I promise. I just need time."

She sits there for hours; sits there until the sky turns orange and the sun begins to sink below the horizon. Then she stands, touches the headstone one last time, and whispers, "Goodbye."

* * *

Almost a year later, when she's returned home for the night, she finds a dark purple envelope sitting on her living room coffee table.

Dark purple. Probably her favorite color. Only a few people would know ...

She flips it over to read what's on the back: _Melinda_. Just her name, but she knows that handwriting as well as her own.

But how? How is it possible?

With trembling fingers, she opens the envelope and pulls out the note resting inside.

_It's technically a secret, but I wanted you to  
know before anyone else did. I've missed you,  
and I hope you've been well._

Her hands are shaking and her heartbeat is rapid and her head is filled with a million questions, and yet she can't help but grin at the last line.

_I'll phone you when I can._

* * *

**I don't know if I'm any good at it or not, but I love to write May.**

**Please forgive any mistakes. I checked it at least four times, but it's three-thirty in the morning and I need sleep. xP  
**


End file.
